'My dear, don't have ideas,' she said.
'There, Hazel!' Edward smiled. 'What about your ideas in the spinney?'
'There's queer things doing in Hunter's Spinney, and what for shouldna you believe it?' said Hazel. 'Sometimes more than other times, and midsummer most of all.'
'What sort of queer things?' asked Edward, in order to be able to watch her as she answered.
Hazel shut her eyes and clasped her hands, speaking in a soft monotone as if repeating a lesson.
'In Hunter's Spinney on midsummer night there's things moving as move no other time; things free as was fast; things crying out as have been a long while hurted.' She suddenly opened her eyes and went on dramatically 'First comes the Black Huntsman, crouching low on his horse and the horse going belly to earth. And John Meares o' the public, he seed the red froth from his nostrils on the brakes one morning when he was ketching pheasants. And the jeath's with him, great hound-dogs, real as real, only no eyes, but sockets with a light behind 'em. Ne'er a one knows what they's after. If I seed 'em I'd die,' she finished hastily, taking a large bite of cake.
'Myths are interesting,' said Edward, 'especially nature myths.'
'What's a myth, Mr. Marston?'
'An untruth, my dear,' said Mrs. Marston.
'This inna one, then! I tell you John seed the blood!'